With all his strength he drove the sharpened stake down.
It pierced the bear’s body just below the left shoulder and the youth recoiled as a huge gout of blood spurted from the wound. He wrenched it free and struck again, this time into the animal’s throat. It awoke in pain and uttered a strangled cry, one huge paw reaching for the stake which pinned its head to the ground, the other swatting at its attacker. Dazed and dying, it tried to rise, the shaft still through its throat and Anatole quickly snatched up another of the lethal spikes. He drove it into the beast’s belly, careful to say clear of the flailing claws. More blood spouted from the wounds, splattering him and he spat disgustedly as some hit him in the mouth. But, with a final despairing grunt, the bear keeled over onto its side and lay still.
Anatole kicked it with his boot tip and it moved slightly. Probably just muscular contractions but he was taking no chances. Retrieving a third stake, he drove it through the creature’s head and leaned on it for what seemed like an eternity. Spattered with blood and panting like a horse, the youth sat down beside the carcass of the bear, wiping some of the sticky crimson liquid from his face. But, he did not sit for long. There was work to be done.
Anatole found that by pulling more branches across the cave entrance and piling some snow around it, the hole was all but obscured from any passers-by. He stood outside his newfound ‘home’ gazing at the makeshift covering of frozen branches. As he made his way back to the cave carrying an armful of wood, he used one branch to cover his footsteps. Then, he pulled away part of the canopy and, after meticulously replacing it, made his way back to the rear of the cave. He had estimated by now that it must go for at least fifty feet into the hillside, the narrow tunnel curving to the right the deeper it went.
He dropped the pile of wood beside the chopped-up remains of the bear. The task of dismembering the large animal had been a long and unpleasant one but Anatole had persevered. He had no choice but to do so and now he wore the reeking skin around his shoulders like a kind of cloak. He ignored any fleas which might be nestling in the thick fur, the warmth was the only thing that mattered to him.
The youth had used every piece of the dead bear that he could. As well as the portions of its body which he intended to eat and the fur which he now wore as a protection against the cold, he had smeared his body with some of the glutinous fat which had been beneath the animal’s skin. If, he reasoned, a layer of fat kept the bear insulated against the cold then it should do the same for him. It should also keep him waterproof. He stank to high heaven but only his nostrils smelt it. What was left of the fat he spread over some twigs nearby then he set about building a fire.
It took him ages to get a flame started, rubbing the two plieces of wood together but, with the aid of the grease, he soon had a small blaze going and he carefully fed in more branches. The interior of the cave lit up and Anatole almost shouted aloud in triumph and relief as he felt the first waves of warmth wash over him. The flames danced wildly before him, the fat crackling. The heat felt so good on his frozen hands and he huddled over the fire so close that it seemed he himself would go up in smoke.
He took a portion of the bear’s hindquarters and skewered it with one of his pointed shafts then he held it over the flames, watching as the meat cooked, a delicious aroma rising from it. The cave filled with grey smoke but the youth ignored it, his eyes on the piece of meat. When he thought it was ready he took it from the flames and devoured it hungrily. Grease and juices ran down his chin but he ignored them, concerned only with eating his kill.
When he had finally finished he sank back, his belly bloated. The fire still burned brightly and Anatole felt as if he himself were glowing inside. He felt pleasantly drowsy, probably the accumulation of all that had happened to him in the past two days. He gazed into the leaping flames and saw in them the blazing ruins of Prokev, the burning bodies of the villagers.
He drifted off to sleep with that image in his mind.
Three days, four days. A week. Anatole couldn’t be sure how long he’d been in the cave. Time seemed to have lost all meaning for him. Without a watch he never knew what part of the day it was. His clock was the rising and setting of the winter sun and the gnawing in his belly which told him it was time to eat. He had devoured every last morsel of the bear. Some of its skin he had wrapped around his legs to further insulate him from the cold. Other strips had been used to secure the double-edged knife to the end of a long shaft of wood, transforming it into a deadly weapon. He also had the sharpened stakes, they were propped against the wall of the cave. Three of them still bearing the dried blood of Anatole’s kill.
He had been outside just twice to gather firewood but now he realised he must venture forth again in order to find food and to replenish his stock of wood. Keeping the fire alight had been his biggest problem ever since he found refuge in the cave. There was a strong draught coming from somewhere and, although it mostly fanned the flames it sometimes threatened to put them out. Anatole looked at the fire, which was little more than a pile of glowing embers and pushed another branch onto it. He hoped the small fire would continue burning until he returned with more wood and, hopefully, some food. He picked up two of the pointed shafts and stuck them into his belt beside the little pouch which contained the bear’s teeth and claws, then he retrieved his most lethal weapon and, after inspecting the razor-sharp edges, headed for the mouth of the cave.
Night had fallen across the land; a thick, impenetrable night unblessed by the presence of the moon. The frost bit hungrily into his uncovered face as he emerged from the relative warmth of the cave but his body remained warm and he moved swiftly and expertly through the woods and bushes, as stealthy and cunning as any predator.
The tracks which he came upon belonged to a deer and Anatole knelt in the snow to examine them, scanning the ground ahead. He got to his feet and scuttled off after the trail slowing his pace when he heard sounds of movement not far ahead. He ducked down behind a tree and watched.
The deer was small, no larger than a dog, but it would do for his needs. However, as he watched, it raised its head from the leaves it had unearthed and sniffed the air nervously.
Anatole cursed beneath his breath. The animal must have caught the scent of the bear. After all, the youth was smeared with bear grease and wearing its skin it was a wonder he had been able to track the deer as far as he had. Moving with infinite slowness, he readied the knife-topped shaft, realising that the deer was not going to remain where it was for long with the thought that it had a bear near it.
His suspicions were well founded. The small animal jerked it shead around once more then spun round.
Anatole leapt to his feet, simultaneously hurling the spear. More by luck than judgement, he hit the deer in the rump but the weapon came free, gouging a large chunk from the stricken animal’s leg. It went down in a heap and Anatole was upon it, finishing the job with one of his sharpened stakes. Smiling to himself, he picked the deer up by its feet and carried it back towards the mouth of the cave, leaving the tiny carcass outside his dwelling while he went off to fetch some wood.
He broke off several large branches from a tree about twenty yards down the slope and carried them back up to the cave.
The deer was gone.
Anatole dropped the wood and spun round, looking first at the patch of blood on the snow where the dead animal had lain and then at the trees which seemed to be crowding in on him. The blood looked black in the darkness and, as he looked, he could see that a trail of it led away from the cave. There were several marks in the snow round about and as he bent to inspect them he realised what they were.